


The Demon In My Head

by WulfenOne



Series: Butterflies With Angel Wings [2]
Category: X-Men (Comicverse), X-Men - All Media Types
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-19
Updated: 2017-09-19
Packaged: 2018-12-31 15:45:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12135723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WulfenOne/pseuds/WulfenOne
Summary: After recovering from her near-fatal mauling at the hands of Sabretooth, Betsy Braddock confronts her attacker, armed with her new Crimson Dawn magic.





	The Demon In My Head

"Are you sure you want to do this, Betsy?" Warren asks me, a look of concern on his blue-skinned features as he glances away from his controls for a second to look at me.

"Yes, Warren, for the hundredth time, I'm quite sure," I reply, a little more clipped than I intended. With a little twinge of regret, I sigh and continue "I'm sorry, darling, but this is just something I have to do. I can't keep running away from it forever. If I don't do this, I'll go mad, I know it." I reach across the plane's cockpit to stroke my lover's cheek with one hand. His skin is so very soft, like a comfort blanket, that I can almost feel my heart slowing to a normal pulse. Almost.

"If you're sure," Warren says, and returns his attention to the plane's flight path. I know that he would rather have flown us out here himself, but this is a distance that is too far, even for him. If we had been staying at Warren's Erie in the Rockies, it would have been a different matter – X-Factor's home is just a few kilometres away. But since we were in Salem Centre, it means that we have to get where we want to go using this little Cessna that Warren has borrowed from the hangar at the Xavier Institute. Warren hates to be in the sky, but not  _in_  it – he would much rather spread his mighty wings and fly like the angel he was born to be than take a flight in an airliner or a smaller plane like this one. And I would much rather put my arms about his neck and join him, but in this case, I know that I will have to forgo that particular pleasure.

Pleasure won't be on the agenda here, full stop.

Warren picks up the little radio handset and asks for permission to land near the base that X-Factor have established here – normally it would take weeks of paperwork to even get within sniffing distance of this place, even for a person with as much wealth as Warren, but since Val Cooper owes us a few favours, she's agreed to give us special dispensation, just this once. She's there to greet us as we taxi to a halt on the runway, her blonde hair barely tousled by the wind that lashes the airstrip like a vengeful god.

"What brings you two here?" she asks, with genuine curiosity.

"We want to see Sabretooth," I say before Warren can get a word out of his mouth.

"You…  _want_  to see Sabretooth?" she repeats, as if to imply that we are both completely mad. In my case, given my history with Victor Creed, I'd find it hard to argue with her, but Warren nods before I can do so.

"Yes, Val," he says. "Betsy wanted to see what you've done with him. She has… issues… she needs to settle with him."

I'm glad he speaks for me on that. I really don't think I could find the words to express what I feel towards Victor Creed right at this moment. Anger? Perhaps. Hatred? Maybe. Rage? Definitely. He… violated me, in the same way as if he had forced his body onto mine. He raped my sense of self and spat on what I was, what I am, what I can never be again.

Victor Creed killed Betsy Braddock, and for that I will have my pound of flesh, I swear it.

"Elisabeth?" Val says, as she sees my face twisting in pain. "Are you all right?"

"Yes, Doctor," I say, even though that's a lie. "Shouldn't we get out of the wind?" Val nods in agreement.

"Of course – you're right. Follow me." She walks towards a doorway set into the mountainside, which is flanked by two muscular guardsmen armed with automatic rifles. I can sense their dislike of Warren and me already – they do not like the way that my eyes slant upwards, or the fact that my skin colour is different to theirs, or the fact that I have purple hair. Warren they have fewer problems with – his fault is just the fact that he has blue skin and wings. Briefly, I wonder which of those is the worst prejudice, and walk past them, closing my mind to their ignorance. Inside the base it is a lot easier for me – since the personnel work with mutants daily they are less inclined to be blinkered or ignorant. Passing the team's rec. room, we find most of X-Factor, drinking lemonade or Coca-Cola and discussing which of them is the best at table tennis. Apparently they had a mock-championship the afternoon before, and Wolfsbane and Wildchild are still arguing about the results. When Rahne sees me, she squeals with delight and says "Betsy! Warren! 'Tis grand to see ye! How've ye been?" She runs to Warren and throws her arms around him, and then turns her attention to me, her fellow countrywoman.

I hug her listlessly and say, "I've been better, sweetheart." Forcing a smile onto my face, I decide that I don't want to make her miserable as well, and continue "You look like you've made a home for yourself here, though."

"Och, it's nae bad," she says in her thick Scottish accent. "Could do wi' serving tatties and neeps sometimes, though. An' I'm dyin' for a plateful o' Yorkshire pudding and roast beef. I'm fed up wi' having tae eat French fries all the time." She grins, her needle-sharp little fangs peeking over her lips.

"I know what you mean, Rahne," I say, and I do. American food is nice, but sometimes I long for some authentic English suppers. I see her suppress a girlish giggle, and it lifts my heart.

"Why're ye here, Betsy?" Rahne asks finally. "Are ye two going tae join X-Factor now?"

I swallow, and say "No, Rahne. I'm here to see Sabretooth." Her mouth falls open.

"But…  _why?_ " she asks, incredulous. "I thought he… I mean, Val told us he…" She falls silent, and I don't blame her. If I were in her place, I'd question the wisdom of this whole endeavour myself.

"He gave me this mark, Rahne," I say, gesturing at my face with a hand. "If not directly, then through his actions, and I'm going to make sure that he knows it. I have to put this behind me, and I think this is the best way to do it. Besides," and I smile briefly "what have I got to lose?"

"I suppose…" she says, her voice trailing off, unconvinced. Then she looks up at me with her innocent brown eyes and says "Good luck, Betsy."

"Thank you, Rahne," I say, and I mean it. I hug her one more time and then Val, Warren and I progress down the corridor, past doors marked with "Authorised Personnel Only" stickers and men armed with rifles and tazers. Val simply flashes her ID badge, and they part like the Red Sea, guiding us through the dark, beating heart of this facility, until we come to the door marked with a sign saying "CREED, VICTOR", and advising people coming and going to wear full protective clothing and carry a weapon with them at all times. Val points me in the direction of a rack of chainmail suits and gloves, along with steel/adamantium mesh chestplates and greaves. I consider them for a moment and then I say "No. I want to face him as I am. I want him to be free of his restraining collar." Warren's eyes bulge and I feel his disbelief through the link that we share.

"Are you out of your  _mind_?" he asks, incredulously, his opposition to this whole affair emerging in a single burst of hot, stinging emotion. "That… that  _animal_  in there almost  _killed_  you, and you want to face him without any protection  _whatsoever?_  I don't  _believe_ this!"

"I'd have to advise against this as well," Val says, tapping a pen against her bottom lip. "We use that protection for a reason. Creed is far too dangerous to face without any kind of protective clothing. He's almost crushed Forge's bionics and gotten close to gutting Wildchild too many times to count. The collar is the only thing that keeps him from killing people. If he gets it off, then –"

I smile thinly and hold up a hand. "I know what happens then, Doctor. Far too well."

Val's mouth sets itself in an equally thin line. "So then why –"

"Because I need to know if I'm still effective without artificial protection," I say, as if that will make either of them feel any better.

But then this isn't about either of them, is it? It's about me, and what I think about myself.

"Very well," Val says, clearly still unhappy, "but the instant he tries anything, I want you out of there." I nod. I think it highly unlikely that I'll do as she asks, but it will make her feel better. Then I turn to Warren. He looks at me, also clearly upset.

"I still think this is a bad idea," he rasps, his voice raw. I touch his face and send my reply through the psychic link that we share.

Warren – my love, my life – you agreed to this. We agreed that this was something that I had to do. Don't take that faith away from me now – trust me like I trust you. I love you, my sweet angel. I love you.

"Don't leave me," he says, his voice like that of a child.

"I don't plan to," I answer as I touch the keypad that opens the door to Victor Creed's cell. As soon as the door closes behind me, I hear the sound of Creed moving away to my right, and through the corner of my eye I can see him sitting in the shadows like a panther ready to spring.

"Thought I killed you, frail," he says in his guttural snarl of a voice.

"Well, you thought wrong, then, didn't you, Victor?" I see him sniffing again, uncertainly.

"Your scent's… different."

"I'm different, Victor."

"Yeah, well, different don't mean squat." I see him gathering strength in his legs, can feel his boundless rage like a tidal wave against my skull, and then he leaps, his claws outstretched – and before his claws can rend my flesh and tear my organs into a bloody pulp, I am travelling through the shadow to my right in order to come out behind him. It is still new to me, this "shadow-shifting", but I am getting better at it all the time. I can travel anything up to ten kilometres in a single jaunt now. This is child's play. He stumbles to his feet, unsure of what's going on. In my ears Val Cooper is screaming at me to get out, but I am just getting started.

_Oh, Victor Creed, what fun this is going to be!_

He hears me emerge from the shadows behind him and begins to turn just as I find my feet. Before he can swing his hand with its fistful of claws at me, I am slamming the point of my left foot into his spine. He howls as he is thrust forwards and tumbles like a toddler onto his knees.

"Stand still, bitch!" he screams. Oh, he is angry now. I can feel it burning at the base of my brain like a bonfire.

"This is because of you, Victor," I say. "I can do this because of you."  _Bear this in mind, you sick bastard. You brought this on yourself._  I make sure that he can hear my thoughts, the butterfly image that forms the basis of my telepathic abilities settling in the centre of his twisted brain and transmitting my words to him. I stand with my feet in an isosceles stance, my weight perfectly balanced, and my hands raised in a standard ground-to-sky defence. Creed knows this position well, and he knows how to break it, too. But he doesn't know how to break me.

Not anymore.

"I didn't do nothin', bitch," Creed hisses in defiance. "You think a funky tattoo and new powers're gonna scare me, you're wrong." He draws his lips back over his fangs, drool dripping from his mouth. "Dead wrong." With that he barrels towards me again, his claws glinting in the dim light. A detached part of my mind makes me wonder how he ever beat me in the first place. A little smile crosses my lips as I melt into the shadow behind me. As I disappear into the "corridor" dimension that I have learned to utilise like Kurt's teleportation, I hear Sabretooth curse. He cannot smell me any more, and that disturbs him more than anything else. He has lived by those animal senses of his for so long that he's become complacent. Lazy. He's still looking for me, swinging that great head of his to and fro to try and catch my scent, when I reappear from the shadow in front of him and land a good, solid blow to the side of his jaw. I feel his lip split under my fist, the flesh tearing and reforming almost instantly. The punch is good, and satisfying with it. It is certainly enough to make him spit a mouthful of blood out onto the floor of his cell and curse even more.

Creed roars, and his yellow eyes fill with the rage that I know has been boiling inside him for as long as he has been cooped up here. His huge hands flash towards me with more speed than I gave him credit for and slash neat wounds in my shoulder, my body only dragging itself aside out of pure reflex.

_Touché, Victor,_ I think.  _Touché._  The pain of my rent flesh brings everything into sharp focus. Stinging with anger of my own, I spin on the point of my left foot and aim the heel of the other at Creed's midriff. He is sluggish, caught up in the Otherworldly scent of my blood, and pays for it by getting the air driven from his lungs. To his credit, he reacts quickly, his military training coming to bear as he lashes out with a meaty leg to sweep me off my feet. I hit the ground hard, and he stands over me, a sick grin on his face.

"Well, well," he says in a voice that could cut diamond, "ain't this familiar?" I smile back at him, pleased that Warren and Val haven't come to my aid just yet. They're learning.

I smile, to Victor's surprise. I'm too fast for him, rolling aside as he brings both of his paws down with a finality that would have scared me when I still lived in my original body, his claws gouging long troughs in the floor of his prison. I take advantage of the situation, kicking him in the temple with the heel of my left foot. I see his eyes go blank for a second before they re-focus and glare back at me, full of a hatred so pure and deep that even my psychic circuit breakers can't entirely block it out. Creed roars once again, and leaps for me. This time, I cannot escape, and he manages to straddle me and pin me to the ground with his legs. His sharp claws circle one of my breasts, and he grins, his vicious fangs dripping glutinous saliva.

_I have you now, you animal._

I make sure that he hears that thought, and his smile widens.

"Is that right?" he says in a bold, swaggering sort of tone. I can tell that he has absolutely no idea what I'm about to do.

"Absolutely," I tell him, and my hands reach up towards his eyes to momentarily blind him while my pinioned legs, released by Sabretooth's brief thrashing as he paws at his eyes, wrap around his neck and slam his head into the floor of the cell. I find my feet again and hit him around the midriff with a succession of kicks and punches that he can only partially fend off with his claws. As I herd him towards the largest shadow in the room, I begin gathering strength in my legs. This will take all I have, and then some.

As he stands in front of the darkness, I hit him around the middle, and as he is doubled over, I grab at his neck, dragging him into the shadow with me.

We emerge from the shadow across the room, my mark glowing with the effort of shifting two people instead of one. I can feel the sweat running off my brow, but that's nothing compared to what Sabretooth is going through. I can see it in his eyes. Without the dark protection of the Crimson Dawn's magic, he was fully exposed to the madness and bedlam that exists in the shadow dimension. His eyes are wide open, and his lips are drawn back over his teeth. He can still see it, I can tell. His mind tells of what he saw, and were I not utterly without compassion for this murderer, I'd almost feel sorry for him. He babbles and whimpers, holding his hands in front of his face like a frightened child. His mind has completely short-circuited thanks to the inhabitants of the shadows. I thank my lucky stars that the Crimson Dawn's protective hexes prevent me from seeing the dark creatures that I know inhabit the shadowy places, on a scale that would drive most mortals insane. Being a former sorceress, I'm not completely ignorant of what goes on beneath mortal notice. Sabretooth, apparently, had no idea, and the notion has, it seems, caused his mind to retreat in on itself. He curls up in a ball, tears seeping from his eyes though they are tightly closed. He shivers and shakes as if in the grip of a terminal fever, and the sounds that come from his throat are pitiful to hear.

It would seem that Victor Creed is as human as the rest of us.

Finally, Val and Warren enter the room and see what I have wrought. Warren hugs me and I hug him back, kissing him on the lips as though I have just returned from a trip through the wilderness – which in a way, I have.

"What… what did you do?" Val asks me, in a hushed tone. "How did you get him like this?"

I smile thinly at Val. "Why, my dear Valerie," I say in a voice that chills even Warren to the bone, "I showed him what it's like to be me."


End file.
